


Overestimation

by tjmystic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28682568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjmystic/pseuds/tjmystic
Summary: Dean thinks that he and Cas have been dating for nearly 5 years. The only problem with that? Cas has no idea.
Relationships: Castiel (Supernatural)/Original Male Character(s), Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	Overestimation

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so, before I get started, a couple notes:
> 
> 1) We were robbed with the fucking finale that shall not be named, and I’m going to spend a whoooooole bunch of time in the upcoming weeks/months correcting that.  
> 2) This will be my first time writing explicit homosexual sex, so I welcome any and all feedback, especially to point out if I’ve said or implied something offensive.   
> 3) This fic takes place in some vague time period after Season 9. The big differences are that Cas recovered his grace, Metatron didn’t kill Dean, and they found a way to remove the Mark of Cain, meaning that Cas is a full-on Seraph again and Dean isn’t a demon. Other than that, the big details are the same. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Castiel was not an expert at human interaction.

For all that he’d spent the last million years of his existence watching over the Earth, of which humans had been the prime species for the last 10,000 years or so, he’d never quite grasped all of their little quirks.

Maybe it was a lack of proper observation. Maybe it was Naomi’s doing, her constant reprogramming warping his mind and causing him to forget all that he’d learned. Maybe it was just a failure in his own coding. Whatever the reason, no one could accuse him of being proficient at reading people.

That said, even he knew that there were a limited number of ways to interpret a kiss, especially one that included a hand at the front of his pants and a warm tongue in his mouth.

He was reasonably sure that he was being propositioned.

The evening had started normally enough. He’d been assisting Hannah in tracking down their missing brethren when he’d gotten the call from Dean. Three missing persons suddenly turned up in Belmont, Oklahoma, and neither he nor Sam knew what to make of it. Possession was their first assumption, but none of the victims remembered anything of the past year of their lives. That didn’t fit the modus operandi of either angels or demons. Castiel said as much, not-so-subtly reminding his friend of the mission he’d taken on, but, as usual, Dean steamrolled right over him. For one, he said, if this was a monster that he and Sam couldn’t identify, then odds were that it might be ancient and/or dangerous enough to warrant a helping hand. For another, they couldn’t rule out angelic possession (Sam had spent the better part of four months possessed by Gadreel without ever knowing it, a fact that Dean reminded him of very quietly across the phone), and if angels _were_ involved, then it would be in Cas’s best interest to help out. Besides, Cas planned on hitting Wyoming next, and Belmont was on the way. They’d be “killing three birds with one stone”, as he put it. It would be more difficult for Cas to refuse than to accept.

Moments like these made Castiel wonder why it was Sam and not Dean who had elected to go to law school.

Dean really didn’t need to provide so compelling an argument, though. Strange as it still was to contemplate, Castiel had long given up pretending that he wouldn’t rather spend time with Dean Winchester (and Sam, he supposed) than be anywhere or with anyone else in the universe. He’d said as much to both Winchester brothers a number of times. Every monster they’d come across, even his own brothers and sisters, had pointed it out to them, as well. Still, Dean insisted on giving lengthy explanations for why Castiel should agree to accompany them. He assumed it was yet another human ritual he didn’t understand. So, he fulfilled his part and grumbled a bit before acquiescing. He could almost hear Dean’s relieved smile over the line, the note of joy when he commanded Cas to “burn rubber” and call when he got to town.

It was a four-hour drive from Arkansas, but Castiel made the trip in just over three. Dean and Sam were waiting for him just outside the local bar as Dean had promised, surprisingly bereft of their fed suits. Both brothers slapped him on the back when he got out of his Continental, a gesture he returned with as little awkwardness as possible. Dean’s hands bore a few more calluses, and a fresh scar wrapped its way round his thumb. Cas squinted at the new wounds, but Sam started explaining the plan before he could ask.

One of the missing people was an elderly woman who lived alone at the edge of town. Another was a teenage boy who’d made a habit of running away. Neither were very good leads. They were banking on the third. Elle Fairbanks had been tending the bar the night she went missing, meaning that there was a building full of people who might have noticed something off. That was as close to a lead as they were likely going to get.

Naturally, Castiel assumed he’d be waiting outside as backup, or perhaps investigating the establishment while Sam and Dean distracted everyone. To his surprise, the Winchesters had planned on the exact opposite. If their culprit truly was a rogue angel, then sending in Cas might be enough to smoke them out or make some other mistake. Also, there had apparently been an incident in this particular bar that meant that neither Sam nor Dean would be particularly welcome inside. Judging by the flush on Sam’s cheeks and the smirk on Dean’s mouth, he assumed it was quite the story.

That’s how he found himself on a barstool fifteen minutes later, trench coat stuffed in the trunk of the Impala and his hair artfully restyled by Dean. The moment reminded him of the previous year, when Dean had helped him get ready for what he’d thought would be a date with Nora. He said as much. Sam quirked an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth arched up in a half-smile. Dean paled and muttered at Cas to shut up.

Human behavior was so strange.

Castiel took a long sip from the whiskey he’d ordered, glad for the time being that his tolerance level was up to par again. His eyes roamed the bar, stilling only when Dean prayed to him that they were safely in the storage room. Now, all he had to do was keep anyone from going back there for the next ten or so minutes.

It wouldn’t be an onerous task, from the look of things. Only twenty-eight patrons filled the seats, most of them glued to the television screen in the far corner of the room. A single bartender manned the taps. It was fortunate, for their purposes, but Castiel couldn’t quite make himself feel happy about it. If this is how the bar operated most nights, then it was no wonder Elle Fairbanks had made such an easy target.

Tonight didn’t seem like it would be the scene of a repeat performance, at least. Of the two dozen or so guests Cas had gotten a good look at, only two of them seemed belligerent, much less violent, and he assumed that had more to do with drunkenness and a lost game of darts than any supernatural activity. Granted, his sense for the paranormal had lessened since The Fall, but he could still recognize the presence of something out of place.

The only person who fit that description was the lone bartender. Every few seconds, Castiel felt the man’s eyes fall on him, wide and jittery, before returning to the task at hand. He hadn’t risked taking a closer look in case he turned out to be their culprit, but now, with his focus on crushing ice for a drink, Castiel thought it might be safe.

There weren’t any markings on his skin. Nothing monstrous, at least—a tattoo, tribal in nature, stamped his arm right above the elbow. There was nothing particularly dangerous about the Navajo symbol for “bird”. Then again, it was possible that the man was a shaman of some sort, which meant that he might be able to point Castiel in the right direction. The observational skill of shamans and other spiritualists was well-known throughout the Host.

With a roll of his shoulders, he slid from his stool and sidled up to the empty one next to the blender. The bartender stared blatantly, a shot glass hanging from one hand and a dishrag from the other. The pupils of his eyes dilated, and Cas watched closely for the black to totally engulf his stare. It didn’t. And, still, the man continued to watch.

“Can I, uh… can I get you something, man?”

Castiel’s eyes wandered down the man’s front. Nothing seemed out of place. No angel blades or witch’s markings. He hummed, then looked back up.

“Just wanted to ask you a question.”

The man gulped. “G-g-go for it.”

“I’m… looking for someone. For something, in particular. Where have you been the last year?”

He flushed, red overtaking the brown on his cheeks. “That’s a line I ain’t heard in a while. You, uh… you been waiting for me that long?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. That only seemed to make the man squirm more, but not in a way that Castiel found inherently suspicious. He just seemed… uncomfortable? He waited a long moment, eyeing the man from head to toe in search of some clue to his motives, but he gleaned nothing. At least he’d confirmed Castiel’s suspicion that he knew there _was_ something strange going on.

With a grunt, he leaned further across the bar and said, “I suppose that depends on what you know. And I would greatly appreciate you sharing with me.”

This time, the man’s skin went red all the way into the collar of his shirt. A nametag to the right labeled him “Jerome”. Castiel filed that away in case they needed it later. Jerome, meanwhile, licked his lips and flexed his fingers against the glass. These, at least, were signs that Castiel recognized. Nervousness.

“Wow, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

Castiel didn’t respond. Jerome gulped again.

“O…okay. I can… I can take a quick break, if, uh… if you really want me to… show you what I know.”

“You have a coworker to take over for you?”

He thumbed the phone in his pocket. To his relief, though, Jerome shook his head, an attempt at a smile on his lips.

“Nah, just me until 7. But it’s the lunch crowd. They can wait, uh… fifteen minutes?”

“I don’t believe it will take us that long.” Castiel released his phone, then leaned over the bar. “Unless you truly know something of merit, anyway.”

Jerome gulped. Loudly.

“We, uh… we should probably go somewhere more private, then.”

Castiel all but smirked. If only Dean could see him now. Surely even the hunter would be impressed with how quickly he’d gotten this witness to cooperate.

“That would be preferable.” He tacked on, in what he hoped was a nonchalant way, “Just not the storage room. We might be overheard.”

Jerome swallowed loudly at that. Castiel tried to hide his smile—it seemed that Dean might have been right in thinking there was something suspicious in that room.

With a shiver, Jerome jerked his head toward the backdoor. Castiel allowed himself another cursory glance at the rest of the people in the bar, then followed. He squinted when the door slammed behind him—the orange burn of the setting sun was somehow stronger than it had been at midday.

“Alright, Jerome, what—”

That was as much as he could get out. Before he could finish, Jerome had set upon him, pressed flat against his chest with one hand curled into Castiel’s hair to drag him deeper into the unexpected kiss.

He still wasn’t sure what he’d said or done to lead Jerome down this course of action, but, despite his initial shock, he couldn’t say that he minded. He’d only ever kissed two people before (and “people” may have been stretching it, considering that one was a demon and the other a reaper). While both of those experiences had been enjoyable in their own way, they were nothing like this. Jerome tasted of neither sulfur nor rain, did not push into him like Meg or coax his lips like April. In an altogether different move, he pressed his body tight against Castiel’s, soft but domineering, and molded their lips together like modeling clay.

It started to make sense to him why so many people were fixated on the act.

Curious, tentative, he opened his mouth, allowing his tongue to just barely graze against Jerome’s. In return, Jerome’s whole mouth seemed to vibrate, a force that began in the base of his throat and ended on the roof of Castiel’s mouth. He licked after the sound, the sensation, more because of that same curiosity than desire, but it must have been the right call all the same. Jerome fell against him with wobbly knees and desperate hands, digging hard and fast into Castiel’s hips.

His vessel’s heart didn’t pound as it had with Meg, nor did his eyes water and his nostrils flare like they had with April. But his pants were definitely tighter than they had been in the bar, and he was all too familiar now with what that signified. It had just been a long time since he’d been pressed against another human’s body when it happened.

He would only need to take half a step closer, shift his hips into Jerome’s waist, and—

“Cas, where the hell have you—oh.”

Castiel rolled his eyes—the Winchester brothers always had the worst timing.

Jerome pushed off of him with a cough, a string of saliva hanging between his mouth and Castiel’s. Unthinking, Castiel severed the line with his tongue. Jerome gulped, visibly, his already dark eyes growing darker. Castiel strongly suspected that it was only the sound of both brothers clearing their throats that reminded the boy they’d been interrupted.

With a roll of his shoulders, Castiel turned toward his friends. Sam was quite obviously attempting to look anywhere close to Jerome or Castiel. Dean’s eyes, however, were firmly glued to Castiel’s face. If he didn’t know better, Castiel might have guessed that Dean had just run over a large mammal with his car.

Strange.

Sam swallowed, eyes still focused on the awning overhead. “You, uh, ready to go, man?”

Castiel ticked his head to the side. “Not quite. I’m still interrogating this witness.”

“ _Interrogating_?"

Jerome and Dean spoke at the same moment, and neither of their tones made sense to Castiel. Jerome practically squawked, as if in surprise. Dean, however, had taken on the same sarcastic lilt he normally reserved for Crowley. Sam still refused to look directly at any of them.

Taking a note from Sam, Castiel directed his responding nod at a brick near Dean’s head. “Yes. He told me he had some intel to provide me.”

Dean huffed under his breath, but Sam elbowed him in the ribs before he could do much else. To his left, Jerome continued to bore holes into Castiel’s skull with his eyes. Unlike the kissing, he couldn’t say it was a particularly pleasant sensation.

“Are you guys, like, cops or something?”

“Or something,” all three of them answered at once.

Jerome gulped. “I’m… oh… fuck. Sorry, man. I just thought that—”

“Yeah, we _all_ know what you just thought,” Dean muttered.

Sam glared down at his brother, then turned toward Jerome. “Not to be rude, kid, but you should probably beat it. We’re in the middle of something.”

“Yeah. Yeah, uh, investigation.” Jerome spared one more glance at Castiel, his cheeks notably flushed, then bolted back through the door from which they had exited. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he left. For some reason, it made Castiel’s spine tingle.

Whether or not Dean was aware of that fact, his eyes narrowed significantly as he continued to stare at Castiel. Flustered, confused, and more than a little angry that Dean had interrupted both his interrogation and makeout session, glared right back.

Overhead, Sam groaned.

“I’m just… gonna… yeah.”

With that thoroughly enlightening announcement, Sam stumbled off down the alley, knocking into a trashcan on his way. Dean didn’t so much as flinch. Nor did Castiel.

When the sound of Sam’s footfalls disappeared, Dean stepped closer.

“So: interrogating, huh?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. I asked him if he knew about the strange occurrences in town, and he told me to join him out here. Presumably to avoid being overheard.”

Dean’s face did a very odd thing. It folded in on itself a bit, almost in relief, but his eyes were still narrowed. He looked angry, to be certain, but Castiel sensed an air of panic, too. The speed of his next sentence only added to that theory.

“So you were just out here asking him questions, and he launched himself at you, so you played along to keep him from getting suspicious. Right. Smart. That’s smart. It was, uh… that was real convincing, man. Good job.”

Castiel tilted his head. He felt sure that he’d missed something, simple as Dean’s statements were. “Convincing?”

“Yeah, you know.” Dean grimaced, then flopped his hand in a vague gesture toward the spot where Jerome had been standing. “Making out with that guy. Looked real believable.”

“Well, he wasn’t an unattractive man, Dean. And his response did elicit arousal.”

Dean’s head jerked up so quickly that Castiel heard a distinctive pop. Dean, apparently, did not, much less feel it. He leveled his unblinking gaze at Castiel, just as before.

“It _what_? Are you… are you telling me you _wanted_ that guy to kiss you?”

“I can’t say I was expecting it, but it wasn’t unpleasant.”

Dean stared. Blinked. Stared some more. Castiel tilted his head an inch further, and, finally, Dean snorted. There wasn’t any humor in the noise.

“You’re fucking with me,” he groused. “Sam put you up to this?”

“Put me up to what?”

He threw his hands up in the air. “You know damn well _what_! Playing tonsil hockey with some—some _kid_ right in front of me! _Me_!”

Castiel’s eyes widened so far he could feel them moving against his brow. “Dean, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

The look he received in return did nothing but deepen Castiel’s confusion. Unfortunately, in their line of work, it was an expression Castiel was all too familiar with. Dean looked like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Wow. Just… wow. That how’s it gonna be, huh?”

Castiel reached forward. “Dean, why are you—?”

Dean held up his hand, palm mere inches from Castiel’s nose. He wouldn’t meet Castiel’s eye. “Don’t _even_ , man. Why don’t you just find some other fucker to play games with, huh?”

He elbowed past Castiel while still giving him a wide berth, squishing himself against the railing tightly so no part of him touched Castiel’s body. If Castiel hadn’t already been stunned, that would have done it—for all that Dean postured otherwise, he was an incredibly tactile man.

By the time he finally managed to unstick his feet from the pavement of the alley and return to the parking lot, the Impala was already long gone. He knew it was pointless, but he looked up the road all the same. There was no trace of Dean, Sam, or their car.

Castiel sighed and heaved himself into the Continental. For not the first time, he wondered what he could have possibly misunderstood.


End file.
